


For the man who knows what he wants (A Birthday Gift)

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Birthday Cake, Christmas, Firsts, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mushrooms, Slow Build, Stoned Sherlock, birthday gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-19 10:25:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17599535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: What do you give the man who has almost everything he already wants or needs? John knows, and he’s giving it to him. It’s also a gift that keeps giving, and John plans to enjoy it as much in return. There’s just one catch: It’s not something they’re to talk about. Not until after it’s unwrapped.Big thanks to Recently_folded for excellent beta, and whose suggestions and comments helped give this story the right twist.Written for the Sherlock Challenge January 2019 challenge "Ten"





	1. Chapter 1

“Swallow these.”

Although he’d wanted something stronger, Sherlock silently took the two white tablets and the glass of water John handed him.

“Sliding on your side two stories down the face of a rough stucco building wasn’t one of your smartest moves,” John said.

“These gloves are ruined,” Sherlock said.

A shame, John thought. He’d rather liked those leather gloves.

After most chases, Sherlock would remove his coat and scarf in a flourish and pace the room. Not the case today. Sherlock unwound his scarf inch by inch, then removed his coat with agonizing effort. Even hanging it up made Sherlock wince.

Sherlock stripped down in the kitchen where he binned the gloves along with his trousers and deep-blue Dolce shirt. Just bits of bloody shreds. Still John doubted that will teach Sherlock to button up his Belstaff. Not that John really wanted him to. He rather liked the way it billowed out behind him like a cape as he ran.

John shook his head at the sight. He was a bloody mess—bruised and skinned raw down his right side, from his ribs to his ankle. He stood shivering in the middle of the kitchen. John quickly grabbed Mrs. Hudson’s hand-stitched quilt and carefully wrapped it around Sherlock’s shoulders.

“Need some help to the couch?” John asked.

Since Sherlock didn’t give him the usual brush-off, John knew he must be in real pain.

Each step was guarded as they moved into the living room. John finally eased Sherlock in his usual spot on the couch, then Sherlock lowered himself down on shaking legs. After, he sat panting from the exertion.

John helped Sherlock stretch out onto his good side, then knelt down in front of him to more closely inspect the damage.

Part of the dichotomy represented by his friend was Sherlock’s willingness to let John tend to him but only after the bastard unnecessarily risked life and limb. He’s all hard corners but his insides were soft. The tender spots Sherlock wanted kept hidden—at least to all those but John. While John was happy to be the chosen one, he feared for his friend. Sherlock sacrificed himself all too often and freely, much to John’s perpetual dismay. That same reasoning got Sherlock shot. The wanker even threw himself off a bloody building to save John. Tonight he slid down another to keep John safe.

The inner shame John felt regarding his own role in this still weighed heavy on John’s heart. John hated his part in making Sherlock believe that offering himself up like a human punching bag was the solution. That’s something John is not okay with.understood why Sherlock let him. It came down to Sherlock’s sometimes-flawed powers of deduction in regard to emotions. Sherlock had reasoned that John needed a physical outlet to cope with life and losses.

John got up to get his med kit, then came back and knelt back down next to Sherlock. With a surgeon’s skilled hand, John took tweezers and plucked away from the inside of Sherlock’s right side all of the bits of broken stucco and fibers from his shirt embedded deep in the epidermis. It was tedious but necessary. No need to invite infection.

Usually Sherlock was impossible. Usually he complained about nothing important and argued over even less. Tonight was different. John had to chuckle to himself since this should be the time he’d expect Sherlock to complain. But he didn’t. He’s didn’t tense: Instead as John touched him, it soothed him.

For John, what made Sherlock the worst also made him the best. He was infuriating, egotistical, maniac. In the past there had been times John had walked away. John regretted every time one of those times. He had told himself he would never again turn his back on the madman. John was here for the long haul—even digging out bits with tweezers. He’s admitted things to himself he thought he never would. It was so difficult to keep what he felt inside, but John had done it so long, it had become habit. There was nothing more he’d love to do in this moment than to tell Sherlock how much he cared, but now was not the time.

“These pants need to come off. It’s best if I just cut them.”

Sherlock silently nodded as John got the scissors out of his med bag, then began to cut and slowly peel back black silk pants from his scraped right hip.

“It was wet,” Sherlock finally said. “I never would have fallen under normal circumstances.”

He was lying now as he often did. But not in all things. John accepted that part of Sherlock. “Well, flesh and bone don’t recognize the difference,” John said, carefully pulling back the remainder of his pants.

“It was also the fastest way down,” Sherlock flinched as he bit back a laugh.

“That’s what I thought.” Now that was truth, John thought. He also thought about guilt. Not Sherlock’s but John’s. That guilt rested in Sherlock’s incentive for sliding down the side of the building to save John Watson from a bullet to the brain. Guilt that John got himself in that very predicament. Guilt that Sherlock didn’t fall, he let go. Guilt that Sherlock believed—always believed—his own flesh held less worth than John’s.

“Besides, it’s only a flesh wound.” Sherlock said. Something else Sherlock did with John more than anyone else. Even when it pained him.

“This time,” John looked up. Sherlock chuckled silently, but looked decidedly pale.

Despite the situation and the bloody mess, John choked out a laugh. It took him back to memories of watching _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_  with Sherlock one night a few months ago. _Unforgettable_. John’s favorite moment was Sherlock throwing popcorn at his head declaring: “I fart in your general direction.” This wasn’t the Sherlock, who claimed John’s interest in popular culture was banal and boring. This Sherlock laughed so hard and so long that tears rolled down his cheeks.

As he smiled down at his friend, John shook his head and continued his ministrations. Sherlock flinched, but didn’t complain. Their earlier laughter relaxed him enough to let down the wall he so often built when it came to expressing feelings. The dam broke and Sherlock began to speak.

For the most part he griped about the upcoming holidays: John’s wish to buy a Christmas tree (“Why even buy a tree? The needles stick to my socks.”), hanging twinkle lights (“Honestly, John, I may have a seizure from the flashing lights.”), and Mrs. Hudson’s addition to her frosted biscuits (“Why ruin perfection with sugar sprinkles as appealing as eating a gemstone?”).

It was a fine distraction from the pain.

Sherlock completely ignored all mention of his upcoming birthday, or their agreed-upon gift. Not even the pain broke Sherlock’s resolve.

John set the tweezers aside and got up to get a basin of warm water and mild soap to gently cleanse the wounds. He then bent himself back to his task. Some of the wounds were still bleeding a bit and oozing. John listened to Sherlock rant as he cleansed the seeping, raw mess of abrasions and dabbed antiseptic lovingly on his side and hip.

In between Sherlock’s comments, John sighed, set the antiseptic aside, picked up the tweezers, and to begin work on his right thigh.

“On a scale to one to ten, how much does it still hurt?” John looked Sherlock directly in the eyes. He wanted honestly. He got it.

“Five.”

John wondered whether maybe instead of paracetamol, he should have given Sherlock what he asked for and pumped him full of morphine. Maybe he hasn’t chopped off his arm or leg like[ The Black Knight, ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmInkxbvlCs) but ‘tis much more than merely a flesh wound. At least with morphine, he would have allowed Sherlock some relief and rest. It would also shut him up.

He finished cleaning up side of his leg, which wasn’t nearly as bad. The worst of it Sherlock took on his right side and hip. His hands would have been much worse, had it not been for the gloves.

He carefully applied gauze, but didn’t tape it down. He’d keep them on until the oozing stopped. He noticed how Sherlock tensed and relaxed, yet he didn’t complain about John’s doctoring. Instead he continued talking to distract himself.

“One plus two plus three plus four equal ten,” Sherlock said. “It’s the perfect triangle: a [ tetraktys ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tetractys).”

John sat up and checked Sherlock’s pupils. “Did you take something and not let on?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “My head is fine. I think Mrs. Hudson is at the door.”

With that there was a knock. John shook his head. He could never figure out how Sherlock did that.

She opened the door and peeked her head through the doorway.

“Come in, Mrs. Hudson,” John said.

“I knew there was trouble by the way you both stumbled up the stairs,” she said, stepping into the room. In her hands, she carried a cake. “Oi! You young men should be a bit more careful! I knew you both could use something sweet. Sherlock loves my holiday Tunis cake!” She placed her cake the table. “He once ate the whole cake in one go.” She stopped short in shock as she walked into the living room and turned her head away. “Sherlock! What have you done to yourself now!” she exclaimed.

“He had a fight with a stucco wall and he lost,” John said, carefully covering Sherlock up.

“The Pythagoreans,” Sherlock explained, “they used the tetraktys when swearing an oath. They’d align small stones in a triangle.”

“What’s he on about? Did he hit his head as well?” she asked John, bending down and brushing the curls from his forehead.

“I’m not sure,” John said in return, looking at Sherlock’s eyes again. “He’s always on about something or another.”

“This is not something,” Sherlock said, voice laced in irritation. “This is a tetraktys. It is an oath.”

“My!” Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, eyes brightening. “Is this part of your birthday gift?! Oh, I’m so sorry! I forgot not to mention it! It’s so hard to keep things straight with you boys. Well, I’ll play along then.” She smiled at them both, then bent down theatrically. “It must be getting serious with you two taking oaths with this tetra thing-a-ma-jig. About time, I say. I always said you two should be together.”

“Not that again, Mrs. Hudson,” John said just as dramatically, standing up.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock said. “Your talents are many, including that of master baker. I think I’ll take a slice if I could just have some help. John?”

John just stared back at Sherlock.

“My arms, John. They hurt,” he says with a look of innocence that he’s turned up several notches.

“You want me to feed you cake? With a fork?”

“I believe that’s how it’s done.”

Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together. “I do think it’s time for me to leave. It’s getting a bit too intimate for me at my time of life.” Mrs. Hudson turned and stepped toward the door. “You boys have fun, but not too much.”

“How much fun could I possibly have?” Sherlock said under his breath as Mrs. Hudson shut the door behind her. “I feel like a seal that’s been skinned alive.”

“No cake after all then?”

“I didn’t say that.”

John cut Sherlock a larger than usual slice, deciding he’d like a taste of Mrs. Hudson’ cake himself. He sat at the end of the couch with Sherlock’s head in his lap. The first forkful half slipped off the tines and down into his mouth, smearing some of the chocolate ganache frosting across Sherlock’s lips. The next bite crumbled as John tipped it down, the largest crumb landing on his chin. John picked it up then popped it between Sherlock’s waiting lips, all the while staring at his chocolate-coated mouth. John licked his finger as Sherlock watched intently.

“Delicious as usual,” Sherlock hummed. John took a forkful as well as Sherlock chewed.

As they ate the cake, Sherlock relaxed his head into John’s lap. Its soft, heavy warmth as Sherlock lolled around like a kitten getting comfortable ultimately led to John’s body betraying him. Sherlock must have felt the change from a soft cushiony lap pillowing his head to a firmer form of support, but he made no comment on it. Instead he continued to eagerly take each bite of the cake.

When done, John put the plate in the sink, then returned to the living room, this time taking a seat in his chair instead of the couch.

Sherlock continued his rambling for another two hours before fading off into a fitful sleep. Which didn’t last. He woke and moaned in pain. The abrasions likely throbbed, and Sherlock couldn’t seem to get comfortable on his left side. Surely his muscles were aching by now. No matter how he twisted, he found no relief.

“You don’t need to do this,” Sherlock said, and bit his lip as John began changing the blood-tinged gauze from the worst of Sherlock’s abrasions. This time John carefully taped them in place to insure that a restless Sherlock didn’t aggravate the wounds.

“Yes. I do. You need someone to look after you.”

“Believe it or not John, there were many years during which I got along without you,” he said. His brow knotted together and he pursed his lips. “Although I do think you being here has had many advantages.

“Like putting on plasters. Picking up takeout. Fetching your mobile from your pocket.”

Sherlock smiled sadly. “Although those are all helpful, there are other reasons as well.” His smile turned soft. “I admit, I’ve grown very fond of you.”

“Fond of me.” John blinked while he digested the thought. “As in pals. Mates. Fond of me,” John stated slowly.

“Very fond,” Sherlock offered.

“Right.” John studied the man’s face. Sherlock was clearly distressed. The sun was coming up; they’d not had a good kip in days, leaving both of them deeply tired. This made John’s decision all the easier. “I’m going to give you something so you can sleep. It will help take the edge off the pain too. We both need for you to get some rest.”

It wasn’t morphine, but a good sedative. Since Sherlock refused to move even as far as his room, John left Sherlock to the couch, but John retired to the bedroom upstairs.  As John had predicted, they both finally got some rest.

It was much later by the time John woke, and he yawned as he came down the stairs. Wrapped up in his flannel robe, he listened from the bottom step. Sherlock was still resting. The windows magnified the setting sun, radiating a warm red glow over the living room. With the same quilt John had wrapped snug around him still in place, Sherlock softly snored from the couch. John admired his handsome profile as he rubbed the back of his own neck. What was he to do with these feelings? It was all so much.

Later. He pushed those feelings to the back of his mind. For now, he turned to the kitchen and started a kettle. His shoulder ached from where he’d slept on it wrong—he found this wear and tear happening more these last few months. He supposed it was the price to pay for chasing Sherlock.

He silently moved the chair out from the table, then retrieved his laptop from the coffee table. He’d update his blog with last night’s caper while Sherlock rested.

John reflected before he began to write. While Sherlock might have been sore, the criminal Sherlock landed on top of was much sorer. Instrumental in breaking Sherlock’s fall, it cost the man a broken arm and a cracked rib. John shuddered to think what might have happened to Sherlock had he not landed on top of the assailant. But then, Sherlock never would have let go of the ledge if it hadn’t been for the knife the man held to John’s neck. That he’d threatened to slice John’s neck open hadn’t helped his case either.

John recalled Greg’s reaction. He hadn’t been too happy as he watched the criminal hauled away on a stretcher. “More paperwork,” he muttered to John. “Not that I’m not happy you lucky blokes both managed to live through this. I know this a waste of effort repeating this, but give me more of a heads up next time? A call? A text? Anything.”

As John continued to flesh out the story in his head, he leaned back in his chair and stared at the screen. He needed an opening for his post. He generally began by addressing his audience. Maybe some tea would help turn his thoughts into actual words.

Sherlock had told Lestrade that the man should have known better than to embezzle from a brother-in-law who was close friends with Mike Stamford. Maybe that’s a start for a blog post: don’t mess with Sherlock’s friends. Or friends of friends. Second thought, better not write that. Especially since the only reason why Sherlock took the case was because he owed Mike for getting Sherlock into St. Bart’s archives to get information for a fascinating cold case. No, best not start with that, especially since friends of friends cases are what Sherlock calls “the most boring of the lot.”

Which this case was. Boring. At least until John had the knife to this throat. The only thing that had made Sherlock bearable the last few days was the anticipation of Sherlock’s birthday gift. Mike’s case was barely a distraction. John had heard Sherlock tell Mike on more than one occasion that the case was only a four and that MIke was lucky Sherlock even took it. Sherlock told Greg the same at the scene, only seconds before he passed out. The stupid git, letting go. Why did he always take chances like that?

John has almost got the story solid in his head, and Sherlock was still snoring from the couch. That sedative had done wonders settling him down. John set his tea down on the table and wrote. He had the opening. Simple. So he pecked it out two-fingered on the keyboard: _We don’t generally take cases from friends, for many reasons. But when Mike Stamford came to us..._

As he finished up his blog, John wistfully ran through Sherlock’s words from earlier that morning. _Fond of you_ , he’d said. John always had wanted a bit more than fondness but accepted what Sherlock had to offer, however little or much. He had made that decision after Mary died. He had hated the world for a time, then. But hating Sherlock had never been the answer. He’d blamed him for too much, but sometime strong emotions get jumbled and mixed up—or that’s how Ella had explained it all to him. It’s something he never quite finishing working out with her but probably should have done.

He sipped his tea. It was cold. He decided to make more. He felt a bit cold himself.

When Sherlock woke up, he was a bit blurry-minded from the sedative but happy for the Earl Grey with extra sugar.

The next few days prove uneventful. No cases. Sherlock recovered slowly. No more gauze. Scabs formed and the ungodly itching began in the healing process. Sherlock was a mess and even more impossible since there was nothing to occupy his mind except Christmas. It came, went. Deck the Halls. Fa la la la la, la la la BLAH!

Only the birthday gift staved off his boredom. That, and the rants that Mrs. Hudson tried her best to ignore in between.  



	2. Chapter 2

It began with pebbles on the doorstep on New Year’s Eve. John noticed them on his way to Speedy’s. When he came back upstairs and mentioned it, Sherlock gave him an odd look.

“They’re in triangles of ten like you mentioned.” John assumed it was a coincidence although Sherlock has assured him that coincidences don’t exist. John, however, has been a doctor long enough to have seen coincidences time and again and knew they happened regularly.

But not four hours later, sugar cubes appeared, all lined up in Sherlock’s triangle. At the top of the triangle, one lonely sugar cube. The second row, two. The third, three, and the last, four. On the table. Next to the tea.

Then New Year’s morning, Mrs. Hudson’s holiday biscuits were in the same triangle formation. On the counter. Next to the sink.

Not a coincidence.

“Sherlock!” he called, scratching the back of his head. “What’s this all about?”

This had to be Sherlock’s doing! It seemed more nonsensical than even his usual odd experiments. Maybe he did hit his head falling down the side of that building.

Sherlock appeared, wrapped in his blue dressing gown, yawning. “I told you what it was. Tetraktys.”

“But why?”

“It’s evident.”

“Maybe to you,” John said.

“Think, John! Or at least try to recall what I told you. I’m not going to repeat myself.”

“That’s hardly fair. I don’t have a recording device for a memory.”

“And neither do I. And since when is life fair?” Immediately Sherlock’s face fell. Listening to what he’d just said, he knew it wasn’t good.

“I’ll ignore that,” John said. “If you tell me what this is all about.”

“It is what it is.”

This was the point at which, John noted, Sherlock would usually throw himself into his chair and rant, waving his arms about wildly in a tirade. Not today. He sat back agonizingly slowly, grimacing, legs sticking out straight in front of him like crutches.

“It’s about a pledge,” he gritted out as if John were inflicting some sort of torture on him.

“A pledge…” John repeated. Sherlock glared back at him, as though it were the most elementary idea ever conceived by man.

“I’m not repeating it again.”

John took a swallow of his cuppa. And waited. He could wait. He’d waited this long for the wanker.

“Must I explain everything in terms that Anderson would understand!” Sherlock wailed.

Sherlock’s past pledges hadn’t panned out so well for John. Or Sherlock. John wasn’t sure he wanted to hear another. He raised his eyebrow and gave Sherlock his best Captain Watson scowl. It worked.

“Very well! This is a secret pledge!” Sherlock blurted out.

“Um, like a secret where you blow out all your candles on your birthday cake or a secret where you take the masonic blood oath?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Neither. Secret as in only I know it, and you don’t but should.”

“What’s the point?” John huffed then noticed the instant of panic on Sherlock’s face. “So if I _should_ know this secret we share, but I don’t, what’s the harm in telling me? Or is this like some birthday wish where you say it and won’t come true?”

John expected Sherlock to frown at him. What he got instead was a Sherlock blinking rapidly and obviously torn.

It took a split second for John to reassess. He knew Sherlock. Too well. He wasn’t torn. No. He was afraid. And so was John. Despite all they’d gone through together, there were words they hadn’t said and should. They’d ignored the elephant in the room; they’d both dropped the topic over and over. John hoped this birthday gift would help some of those words come to the surface. Although he found it hard to keep everything all straight in his mind when Sherlock kept building those damnable tetraktys as though he were aligning the stars.

John could swear—and often did, colorfully, if only to himself—that Sherlock had become obsessive about it all. Not surprising since the man was obsessive about so many other things, like his indexed sock drawer or or his alphabetized collection of fibers or his geographically identified dirt—sorry— _soil_ samples.

Four more days ticked down. John waited and wondered. He frankly needed a bit of space between himself and Sherlock. With his constant complaints of boredom, his intense scratching and conspicuously placed triangles of ten, John needed more distance and spent more of his time working at hospital. Away from 221B.

That was when Mycroft drew him deeper.

He’d finished with his last patient of the day, a lady with chronic arthritic complaints (and halitosis), when Mycroft paid him a visit.

“It seems this is the best I can do so as not to raise my brother’s suspicions. Not that one look at you won’t give it all away, but we must try. I trust that he is healing sufficiently under your care.”

“I don’t think you’re here to check on Sherlock’s health. If you were that concerned, you would have visited him yourself. What’s really the problem?” John asked, snapping off his medical gloves and throwing them in the bin.

“This has gone far enough. I want it stopped. Today.”

“You know as well as I do that once Sherlock gets on a kick, it’s impossible to redirect him,” John said, crossing his arms. “Nothing and no one will stop him. I really don’t see why this even matters to you. It’s only a bunch of triangles.”

“You are correct about triangles if you mean that there are far too many other people involved in this little ‘game’ who have better ways to fill their time.”

“Who would that be?”

“Dr. Watson! You are the one who brought up the triangles. Do not play this game with me. You know very well who else.”

“If you’re referring to Sherlock’s birthday gift, that’s between Sherlock and me. As for those triangles—I have nothing to do with those.”

“What do triangles have to do with this situation?! I know nothing about any triangles other than your obscure references to them! Feigning ignorance through dubious distractions never works on me. You of all people should know that.”

“It’s not subterfuge if that’s what you’re getting at. Listen, about the triangles, it’s Sherlock’s latest kick—I tried to get him to explain them to me. Something about secrets.” John finally has had enough. Why does he need to explain any of this to Mycroft? “Since when does Sherlock share everything with me? You’re his brother. I’m just...his... colleague, friend, flatmate.”

“Are you deliberately trying to obfuscate the situation? You are certainly more than those things to my brother.”

“Aye. And that’s it, isn’t it? You are his brother. Why can’t you talk to him if you’re so concerned?”

“You know as well as I that whatever I say to my dear brother falls on deaf ears. My point is that the fact that you are playing this game with him only compounds this situation.”

“And how exactly does this ‘situation’ even affect you?”

“I’m always drawn into these games whenever you play them. Mrs. Hudson is beside herself. She told me you are both shouting and having a domestic. Gregory said as much to me as well.”

“Gregory? First names now, are we? Well, tell everyone we are not having a domestic. He’s bored. He’s in pain. He needs something to occupy his mind. But I refuse...” John said, finger pointing an inch from Mycroft’s chest, “...I refuse to give him his birthday gift early!”

Mycroft stared at John a second in puzzlement before his eyes opened wide in understanding. “The gift is the game.” He raised his chin, eyeing John suspiciously. “Still, despite your good intentions, I am concerned with the repercussions this so-called birthday game has on all involved. I hate to think what might happen if Mummy and Father found out.” Mycroft cleared his throat for emphasis.

“What is this? You, trying to play on my sympathies?! I’m beginning to think that you’re the brother who plays the violin!”

“Talk to my brother. End this.”

“I don’t need to do shite. Not for you.”

Mycroft tapped his umbrella against the tile floor, turned and left.

John stomped home. Mycroft Holmes! He always, always interfered. John could count on it. If Sherlock wanted to play games because he was bored, what harm did it do? John didn’t mind playing along. This birthday gift of a game was special. John was determined not to spoil it, no matter what Mycroft wanted.

John came home to a kitchen table covered with agar-filled petri dishes growing spores in differing stages. Dishes all aligned in the shape of a triangle, of course.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?” he stumbled in from his bedroom, his curls disheveled from sleep, right cheek with the crease from his pillowcase still visible. It made John’s heart skip a few beats. It’s moments like this that made John want to give Sherlock his birthday gift early.

Sherlock blinked and looked John up and down. “My brother’s been to see you.”

“How can you always tell?”

“Afterward your lip twitches minutely, and your limp returns.”

“Ta, I needed to hear that.”

“What did he want?”

“For the game to end.”

Sherlock snorted a laugh. “It’s not my birthday yet.”

“I thought we weren’t to mention...wait...”

“Yes, John?”

“What are you wearing?”

Sherlock pulled his dressing gown around himself tighter.

“Ah, nothing.

“Nothing as in ‘you’re not telling me,’ or nothing as is ‘you’re in your altogether’?”

“I, all together, am not telling you.”

John crossed his arms and leaned back.

Sherlock sat down hard in his chair and threw his head back. “If you must know, I was itching again, so I took a bath and used some of my bath salts. I mistakenly thought they’d be soothing to my senses. Instead, it felt like my skin was being seared off. I then started the shower. It was like ice shards pulverizing my body. When I got out, I could think of nothing tolerable to wear but…”

The whole time Sherlock complained and swung his arms around, John stepped closer and closer until he stood between Sherlock’s legs. John had _seen_  it. He _knew_  he did.

“You’re wearing my...” John mouth dropped open as he definitely spied a patch of red under his gown. Before Sherlock could stop him, John pulled the tie and opened the robe.

“My pants! Why are you wearing my pants?”

“Mine were too binding, and yours were in the hamper,” Sherlock said loftily, as though it were the most logical explanation in the world.

“You’re wearing my dirty pants?”

“You make is sound so...naughty.” Despite his blushing, Sherlock didn’t look as though he were embarrassed in the least. In fact, he looked almost lascivious.

John simply does not know what to say to all this. It’s almost...

_No._

“In future, don’t wear my pants. You’ll stretch them.”

“John,” Sherlock purred, “I don’t think that’s at all possible.” Sherlock smiled wickedly up at him. Something was off. Very off. John wasn’t sure what Sherlock was playing at.

 _Wait_ ,  John thought back. “What were you growing in those petri dishes?” John asked. “Not those hallucinogenic mushroom spores you were on about last month.”

Sherlock suddenly grabbed John’s arm and pulled him down into his lap. His pupils were dilated, his brow sweaty.

“Why, yes. I have been. That was from the second batch I ordered—surprisingly easy to procure online. I transplanted the first batch not two hours ago. Those are now back inside the dark of my closet completing the final stages of maturation. Although small, they were mature enough to consume. I may have tried one or two as I moved them around,” Sherlock said, voice deep, seductive.

“Ah! I do believe you are having a reaction.” John struggled out of Sherlock’s arms and back onto his feet. Not that he wasn’t enjoying it, but this couldn’t be Sherlock’s real sentiment.

“It’s referred to as a trip. I like the feeling. It’s interesting. Much different to cocaine, morphine, or heroin.”

“What?! No. This is _not_  good. And this isn’t the desired reaction. That itching, burning, freezing skin was part of this. And now you’re acting like a randy teenager!”

“You have the bluest eyes. Like sparkles from the sky.” Sherlock shifted forward on his chair, reaching out for John but missing. Sherlock’s hands weren’t the only thing interested in him. One look at the red pants revealed an interested penis poking out the top along with large wet spot of precum on the front. If they weren’t dirty before, they were now. John swallowed hard, practicing restraint.

“I think you should try to sleep it off,” John suggested.

Sherlock’s bottom lip began to tremble. His hands gripped the arms of the chair, his knuckles turned white. “You’re going to leave me! As soon as I go to bed, you’re going to leave! I knew you would. You always do. Why do you always abandon me?”

“Sherlock, I’m not leaving you. Quit being melodramatic. I’ll be right upstairs.”

“It’s my own fault. It always is. I’m sorry. Please don’t leave.” Sherlock began to breathe in rapid gasps, then leapt up. He paced around John as if circling him would keep him in place.

Getting dizzy watching him, John grabbed his shoulders to stop him, then sternly looked Sherlock in the eyes. “Slow down your breathing. That’s it. Now take deep breaths.”

“You won’t leave, will you?” Sherlock blinked, sucking air into his lungs. “I couldn’t bear it.”

“No, I’m here right in front of you. I’m not leaving. Like I said, I’ll be upstairs in my room,” John said, searching his friend’s eyes. He was heading for a full-blown panic attack brought on by those mushrooms he ate. Some little experiment! John resigned himself to the fact that he wouldn’t be going upstairs to bed anytime soon.

“I’ll do whatever you ask,” Sherlock blurted out. “I’ll make your tea! I’ll clean up my experiments! I’ll even stop insulting Anderson! Just. Don’t. Go.”

“I’m not going. I’m right here.” John eased Sherlock toward the couch. “You need to tell me: what was the name of the mushroom you ate?”

“Mushroom? Yes. It was one of the psilocybe cubensis. Or was it two?”

John sat Sherlock down, then stepped over to the table and opened his laptop. He googled the mushroom’s name. Not good. But it explained a lot. Severe anxiety, paranoia, impaired judgement. Increased risk for having an emotionally disturbing “bad trip.” Worse: self-harm or death due to accidents while high.

“Whatever possessed you to eat it? No, don’t tell me.” He read a bit more. People often couldn’t sleep while under its influence. _Wonderful._

“But you asked.” Sherlock suddenly jerked his head up. Sherlock was silent for a few minutes, staring intensely over John’s head.

“John...there are scorpions on our walls! Why are there scorpions climbing all over our walls?”

“Sherlock, there are no scorpions on our walls. You’re hallucinating.” John snapped the laptop shut.

“No, they are there. I see them. There must be at least thirty of them. Let’s count…”

“Sherlock, stop. Use that big brain of yours. Scorpions don’t live in the United Kingdom.”

Sherlock’s eyes grew huge. “Yes, John! That’s the amazing part!” he shouted. “I need a closer look.” He was off the couch and over the coffee table in a second, then jumped onto the bookcase, climbing it, books, magnifying glass, and objects flying off the shelves to the floor.

John pulled the back of Sherlock’s gown.

“I hear the trumpets! The walls of Jericho are tumbling down!”

“No, that’s you. It’s a good thing that bookcase is built into the wall.” John helped Sherlock off the floor. Standing behind him with his hands on each of Sherlock’s arms, he navigated Sherlock around the furniture toward his bedroom.

“We need to lie down.” Even if he couldn’t sleep, at least John could get him stationary.

“Is that a royal we or are you going to lie down with me?” Sherlock asked, twisting halfway around. “That would be brilliant! We could lie down together. Biblically, if you like.”

It was getting difficult to ignore Sherlock’s innuendos. Especially if he had to share a bed with him. But it looked as though he had no choice. John couldn’t risk Sherlock harming himself in the state he was in. He’d already nearly pulled the bookcase down on top of himself.

It was intolerable being this close to Sherlock. His crotch was practically rubbing against Sherlock’s backside as he pushed him toward his room.

John reached around Sherlock and opened the door. “What is that horrible smell?” John asked as they stepped inside.

“That would be part of the substrate I’m using to the grow the mushrooms in. Most likely the equine dung.”

“We’re going to mine then.” John herded Sherlock around and out the door. As they headed up the stairs, Sherlock began staring at the walls again.

“Look! On the ceiling! More scorpions! How do they move upside down? That is a puzzle. Possibly a miracle. No, not miracle.” John manages to push him up from behind, but suddenly at the top of the stairs, Sherlock swung around, almost knockingJohn off his feet. John’s quick thinking and reflexes saved them both from a tumble backwards.

“I have it! It’s not a miracle—it’s a sign! But I hope it’s good omen not a bad one. We don’t need any more bad.”

“Come on,” John said, leading Sherlock to his door. It felt a lot like he was leading an unruly child to a corner, not a grown man to his…

“BEDROOM!” Sherlock shouted. “At last, I’m here! With YOU!”

“Sherlock, no.” But Sherlock has already managed to squirm around and face John with a leering grin, backing him up against the bed. John doesn’t want to resist. He wanted nothing more than to kiss those cupid bow lips and remove his gown, but he couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t do that. Sherlock was not in his right mind.

John needn't have worried. The moment Sherlock landed on the bed on top of John, he forgot John was even there.

“One. One one. One one one. One one one one,” Sherlock repeated.

John looked up at him in confusion as he struggled to get out from under him. The wanker was heavier than he looked.

Sherlock rolled across the bed to face the wall. With his index finger, he traced words on the wall in front of him. John watched half in fascination and half in alarm. It took him a few moments to realize that Sherlock was scribbling out a tetraktys while repeating the word one. Over and over. All the while he whispered, “I pledge. I pledge. I pledge.”

one

one one

one one one

one one one one

 

Sherlock repeated the ones again, this time alternating writing on the wall and counting off on his hand. “Ten, John, ten! I have TEN fingers! Coincidence?! I think not!”

“Ta, so glad that’s cleared up.”

After twenty-two minutes (John timed it on his bedside clock), Sherlock stopped, rolled back over to face John, and stared into his eyes. His pupils were blown to black.

“I can’t use the wall any more—the scorpions keep getting in my way.”

“Right. It was good you stopped, then. Wouldn’t want to get stung.”

“True,” Sherlock said, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. “Although they seem...what is the word?...complacent...unobtrusive...reticent. Nevermind. It isn’t important.” Sherlock suddenly sat up. “Do you know what _is_  important?”

John was afraid to ask as he looked up into Sherlock’s animated face. “What?”

“Bees.”

“True,” John replied. It seemed a safe enough topic. “They’re very important.”

“I knew you understood their importance otherwise you wouldn’t have an entire hive in your room. Why were you keeping this from me? You know I love to study bees.”

“Ummm...It was a secret?”

“For my birthday tomorrow! John! What, another gift?! First you give me your body on your very own bed,” Sherlock gasped, as he smoothed his long fingers across the mattress. “Then you give me an entire apiary! I’m touched.” He leaned down, lips a mere inch from John’s. “Kiss me.”

John squirmed away just in time. “Sherlock, no. You’re tripping on psychedelic mushrooms, remember?”

“Yes. The mushrooms. But that isn’t why I want to kiss you.”

“Look. If you still want to kiss me tomorrow when you’re not under the influence of mind altering mushrooms, we’ll kiss. But chances are you won’t.”

“Of course I’ll still want to kiss you. I’ve always wanted to kiss you. I love you.” Sherlock snorted out a laugh. “I love bees. I love Mrs. Hudson’s cake and biscuits. I love autopsies. I love the number ten. I even love scorpions!”

“Ta. I’m glad I’m in there somewhere.”

“Oh, John, you’re not in there somewhere—you’re in there everywhere. You’re like oxygen. You are essential to my existence.”

John bit his tongue. What does one say to a man in the throes of a hallucinogen who proclaims his love?

For the rest of the night, Sherlock rambled, ranging from explaining to John how one’s religious experience often frames the trip they take, to complete nonsense about becoming slowly invisible. The worst was thinking he was hungry. John went downstairs and came back up with some crisps. Sherlock refused to eat them, convinced that they were sentient beings. When Sherlock spilled the bag of crisps all over the mattress, the resulting argument went from the crisp’s untimely death to the importance of properly recovering evidence. John told Sherlock there was no crime. Sherlock disputed that a crime of passion had been committed, then made John pick all the crushed crisps from the crime scene (aka the mattress), then carefully brush the bits left into what Sherlock said was “the evidence bag available” (aka the blue Walkers’ packet).

Finally, he stilled and slept, his long arms and legs wrapped tight around John to make sure he didn’t leave.

John was exhausted. But he couldn’t sleep with Sherlock’s arms around him and his backside pressed so close.


	3. Chapter 3

John woke to the sun warm on his face and Sherlock snoring. His sleep had been fitful, but after a time, he had settled into a peaceful slumber. Sherlock would be fine. He untangled himself from Sherlock’s legs and arms.

He wondered if Sherlock would remember what he had said. He wondered if he’d meant it. It was part of why he’d agreed to this gift of a game—not that he didn’t enjoy it himself. But he’d hoped it would do just this, allow them to say what they hadn’t the first time.

At the top of the stairs, the mouth-watering aroma of Mrs. Hudson’s double-fudge chocolate cake met him. 

Sherlock’s birthday cake. John made his way downstairs to the kitchen and put the kettle on for tea. Then toasted some bread. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock would be hungry, but he did enjoy John’s fry-ups. John had planned on treating Sherlock to a big breakfast this morning. No reason not to do it. 

As expected  Sherlock wandered down the stairs drawn the by aroma of coffee and cake. Blinking and befuddled, he plopped into a kitchen chair and stared down at the table as if he were reading it. 

“I think a dead cat is lodged in the back of my throat,” Sherlock said. 

“Hmm. Not surprised by that.”

John looked up from the stove, spatula in hand, eggs and sausages spattering and spitting in the pan. John had the toast, tomatoes, and fried potatoes already on the plates. He served up the rest, then carried them to the table to set in front of them.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thank you, John. It looks delicious.” Sherlock picked up his fork and took a bite of potatoes. “Very good.”

“Coffee?”

“God, yes!”

John poured it and brought his mug back to the table. “That was some night you had,” John said, trying to feel Sherlock out about what he remembered. 

As John took his seat, he noticed Sherlock grimace. “It was. I’m afraid I did a few things that I shouldn’t have. A bit not good, as you once said.”

“You said a few things too.” John cringed. He didn’t mean to imply the feelings Sherlock expressed were not good. He was about to clarify this when John noticed Sherlock nod in agreement. 

“This is a wonderful meal. I…”

John sat back in his chair. “You said something last night. About me being your oxygen. And this whole pledge you have. That triangle thing you keep making.” 

John took a bite of his toast. All the while Sherlock watched him, waiting for what John would say next. 

“What exactly  _ is _  your pledge.”

“John, I…” Sherlock picked up his fork, then carefully set it back down. “Well…” He stared down at his plate, finger gently brushing against his fork. “This is so hard to tell you.”

“Just say it.”

Sherlock slowly picked up his fork, watching his own hand. “My pledge is to love you.” Sherlock cleared his throat, looked up from his hand into John’s eyes. “Even if you don’t love me in return. It’s to take care of you. Properly. To be more to you.”

John sat back in his chair, quiet for a moment, digesting his breakfast and Sherlock’s words. 

They stared at each other, unblinking. 

“Exactly what do you mean by take ‘care of me’?” John asked.

“I will take care of your needs. All of them.”

“Are you going to keep pushing those tomatoes around, or would you rather go upstairs?”

Sherlock jumped up. “ Finally!  Upstairs!” He started for the stairs, then spun around. “Wait! Bathroom!”

John watched Sherlock’s retreating form and seconds later water began running. Sherlock was washing up. Sherlock was washing up and going to his room. Sherlock was washing up and going to his room and John would join him. After he cleared off the table. 

A few minutes later, John watched Sherlock fly up the stairs, his arse still clad in the red pants.

John took a deep breath, then went into the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He took a good look at himself in the mirror all the while thinking that upstairs, Sherlock Holmes was waiting in  his bed. For him.  John was getting another chance. 

He gave his mouth a final rinse and made his way upstairs.

On his bed was a vision. Sherlock, godlike, spread out. The healing abrasions and fading bruises made him painfully mortal. John had thought of him for so long as some sort of untouchable being, not a mere human like him. He swallowed hard as his heart beat frantically inside his chest. 

He removed his t-shirt and dropped his sweatpants to the floor under Sherlock’s unwavering gaze. This all felt familiar, yet new. 

John climbed across the bed on his hands and knees. One look at Sherlock’s eyes stopped John between his legs. This wasn’t the stoned, cocky man who was in his bed last night. This man was aware and very, very nervous.

“I need to ask. I’ve always assumed,” John began.

Sherlock sighed, anticipating. “You are correct in your assumptions, but you don’t have to treat me with kid gloves. I’ve read a lot. Done research. I know what to expect.”

“I’m sure you do, but that doesn’t mean we should rush into it—this being the first time.”

“I know what I want.” Having said this, Sherlock looked hesitant, holding his breath.

“And that is what, exactly?” John wanted it spoken, clearly.

Sherlock slowly let out his breath. “You inside me. To fuck me. That is, if you want.”

“Well. That is why I thought we rushed up here.” John bent down. “There’s a lot to be said for experience, no matter how well read you may be. We’ll start here.” Sherlock’s lips were warm and moist. His beautiful mouth parted perfectly, letting John’s tongue slip inside. Jo ways loved kissing, but this was sublime. The vibration of Sherlock’s deep sigh sent shivers through him. 

John broke the kiss with a gasp. “Tell me if I’m moving too fast for you, love.” With sure hands, he traced down Sherlock’s chest. He tentatively stopped and flicked his left nippple. 

“There is nothing you can do that I would not enjoy,” Sherlock groaned. 

“So, tell me what you like,” John said, as he flicked Sherlock’s other nipple.

“That! I like that!”

“Mmm. Good.” He made sure his hands continued, slow and sure. Down. Down. Inside those red pants. “And this?” he asked as he gave Sherlock’s cock a gentle squeeze.

Sherlock hissed, nodding furiously.  

“Say it,” John said.

“Yes. I like that also.”

“Good,” John answered and began working Sherlock’s cock up and down in his fist, teasing its head with his thumb. “I suppose you enjoy this too.”

“Yes... oh John, like that. Yes.”

John let his body inch down Sherlock’s chest, planting kisses as he went, each one eliciting a moan or gasp or the words, “yes, like that” as he moved lower and lapped a trail down his tummy. Lower and lower until his mouth met his hand, and he pressed his lips against Sherlock long, thick wonderful cock. 

“This really is magnificent,” John said. “I’d really love for you to show me what you could do to me with this sometime.”

“Yes, John. I would love that.”

“What would you love, Sherlock?”

“I’d love to...fuck you.”

“Mmm. And what would you do? Fuck me slow, fast? Would you make me come hard with your cock buried up my arse?”

“Oh yes, John.”

“You would like me to do that to you? What if I took you deep down my throat right now?” John flicked his tongue down the length of his cock. 

“I might expire.”

John laughed. “What if I didn’t.”

“Then I most certainly would expire.” As Sherlock began to sit up, John pushed him down and took Sherlock’s cock down the back of his throat in one go. 

Sherlock soon became incoherent, his babbling resembling his addled mind from the night before. Only this time, passion fueled it. John wet his fingers and teased his pucker. His head bobbed up and down as he eased a finger inside, then eased it in and out, mimicking the same rhythm. Sherlock moaned and pleaded. 

After he had Sherlock sweaty and needy beneath him, John pulled back off his cock. Sherlock panted, eyes glazed. 

“Is it time for the rest of  my birthday gift?” Sherlock asked. The deep timber of this voice set John’s heart to racing.

“It’s tim e. But I get to open it.”

With the lube from his bedside table, John coated his cock, then pressed his blunt, thick head to Sherlock’s pucker. 

“John. God. Fuck me.”

He pushed inside. The head slipped in first. He pressed in harder. “How are you doing, love?” 

“It hurts, but good. Keep. Pushing. Inside.”

John did keep pushing, following Sherlock’s breathing that signaled how fast or how slow. 

“I’m all the way in now. Tell me when you want me to move.”

“Now, John. Move now.”

John obliged. He pulled out half way then pushed in, looking for that sweet spot inside. 

“What was that?” Sherlock shivered.

“I think I found it.”

“Oh, God, John! I love you!”

John, slowing for a moment, smiled softly down at him. “I love you,” he whispered.

Then John rocked in and out, in and out, snapping his hips until…

“There! John, right there!”

John snapped his hips again. Then again. Sherlock’s moans and groans of encouragement fueling him. His heart pounded in his ears. 

“John! I’m...”

John felt Sherlock shoot against him as he thrust once, twice more and buried himself deep inside Sherlock’s arse to come himself. Perfect. 

They held each other. John hadn’t slept well since yesterday. In fact his sleep recently had been for shite. They both nodded off, still holding each other tight. 

——————————-

John opened his eyes. He could have sworn someone had shouted his name.

“John!”

Mrs. Hudson. Downstairs. John rolled over with one thoroughly fucked consulting detective in his arms. 

“Aren’t you two finished with your game  _ yet _ ?” Mrs. Hudson called up the stairs. “I have Sherlock’s cake!”

Sherlock groaned in irritation. “Must we?”

“It’s your birthday,” John said. He’d rather stay in bed, but he had asked her to bake Sherlock’s favorite cake. It was only right to let her give a preview and show off her culinary skills. “And then, there’s the party.” 

Sherlock rolled onto his back, sighed and flung his hand over his eyes.

They’d slept late. Very late. “Be right down!” John shouted, hearing Sherlock groan.

They both moved slowly, putting on their dressing gowns and making their way downstairs to a Mrs. Hudson with her hands planted on her hips and the cake behind her on the table.

“I do believe I’ve aged two life times waiting for you. You boys could at least pretend you weren’t up to something earlier. You’ve given me more grey hairs! Get dressed. Molly and rest will be here soon.”

“John? How many people did you invite? Not Mummy and Father?” 

“Of course I did, you arse.”

They both went into Sherlock’s bedroom, John shooing Sherlock along. “Let’s get you dressed.” 

“Must I?”

“It smells horrid,” John said, standing at the foot of the bed, holding his nose. “How did you sleep in here?”

“If you recall, I haven’t much over the last weeks.”

“I can see why you avoided it,” John said, opening a drawer and pulling out pants and socks. “You’re getting rid of those mushrooms before we sleep in here again.”

“If needs must.”

“Well, of course they must! I don’t want my clothes to smell like horse shit.”

“I may need more space. Maybe your old closet or the pantry.”

“No. No more magic mushrooms, or whatever you call them! You’re getting rid of them. All of them. I don’t know why you decided they were a good idea. I don’t think they’re legal—not that that’s ever a consideration for you.” 

“Why did I ever let you talk me into this party?” Sherlock asked, choosing a shirt from the closet.

“It’s  part of  why I agreed to your special birthday gift,” John said, pulling out one of his jumpers.

Sherlock sat on the bed, buttoning his shirt. “And it was the best birthday gift you’ve ever given me.” 

“Not every day a bloke gets to lose his virginity twice,” John said, and kisses Sherlock’s forehead. “Not that I didn’t love our real first time—but it was just rushed. Us ripping each other’s clothes off in a frenzy. This was nice and slow, and we got to say things, yeah?” 

Sherlock smiled up at him, slipping on his socks.

“I did like the idea of covertly getting Mycroft in the game,” John said.

“It was fun to turn him on his head even if it was by proxy.”

“I enjoyed the build up. It was nice.” No, not just nice, John thought. Hot. But also sweet. 

“Mrs. Hudson loved playing along and seems to really enjoy the whole performance art premise,” Sherlock said.

“If it keeps you from being bored, I’m all for it. But next time no magic mushrooms. And what was that tetraktys about?”

“As I said. A pledge. I was sincere about that. I thought it a good touch. And it’s true. I  _ will _  take care of you,” Sherlock said, and pulled on his trousers, then sat back down on the bed. 

“Ta. What next?”  

“Hmm, I’ll need to think on that one. We already did roleplaying with the male prostitute, but I’d like it if you could be the rent boy next time,” Sherlock said. 

“You’re not the only one who enjoys a good spanking! And maybe play it out over a few days. That’s always good fun, but I doubt if we could ever draw the game out as long as we did this time. But who knows?”

“I’d rather you be Captain John Watson next. I’ll be the insubordinate private. I’d like you to reprimand me. Multiple times.”

“My pleasure, Private Holmes.”

“I do like the sound of that.” Sherlock stood up next to John. 

John smiled as he admired their reflections together in the mirror.  John thought that maybe it  _ was _  better to give than to receive. After all, he’d made the person he loved most in the world happy. He’d relieved his boredom for more than a few weeks, had had an earth-shattering night of sex, and found out that he’s Sherlock’s oxygen. The “I love you’s” were an added slice of Mrs. Hudson’s double-fudge cake.

He watched his reflection give Sherlock a kiss on the cheek. “Happy birthday, love. Now, let’s go and greet your guests.”    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I had great fun writing this and working out how to write the twist, what to reveal and when. So, did the ending surprise you? 
> 
> My "Kind of like a Watergate" question for my readers: what did you know, and when did you know it?


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